Just One More Drink
by Poppea's Revenge
Summary: Goten reflects on his alcholism, and the tragedy it brought. Written in first person point-of-view.


Poppea's Revenge  
Friday, November 17, 2000  
Saturday, November 18, 2000

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ or GT. I had no part in their creation, and claim no rights to either show. This is a fan story and no money is being made.

Author's Notes: This is told in Goten's POV. It takes place sometime after he just started seeing Paris. ( I'm not sure how to spell her name, but I most often see it as Paris or Palace, so I just went with the first one. If anyone knows how to spell her name, please tell me.)

Just One More Drink.

I don't know when it happened. Sometime when Trunks, Pan, and Dad were out in space, I guess. I remember Paris got me started. She always wanted a good laugh. I guess my world was too depressing to laugh at. We went to bars and clubs, just the general dancing and having a good time. I know I didn't like drinking all that much. I just laugh at that now. Me, not like drinking? Impossible. But I didn't then. "It's just a beer, Goten." I remember her saying. Just a beer. I wonder if she would say that now. Paris isn't saying much of anything now. She can't.

That "just a beer" turned into something else rather quickly. Five, six beers a night. We would go from club to club, getting drunk and laughing at everything that happened. Paris was so much fun back then. I remember my mother once telling me to be careful around those city girls. I wish I had listened. How much I regret not listening to my friends and family, to my own common sense. I listened to Paris instead. "Don't tell me you can't hold your own against a little beer," She had said the night I took my first drink. I wish I had just said 'no' and walked away. I couldn't walk away, and Paris can't really walk anywhere now.

How did it begin? I ask myself that same question everyday. I wake up, stare at the ceiling and imagine how it could have been if I had never touched that first glass. Those beers turned into whiskey in just a few weeks. I didn't even realize what was happening until it was too late. Paris and I still went out every night. We still got drunk, but it was different. She was so out-of-it that she couldn't even walk straight, and I let the whiskey turn me into some kind of monster. I yelled and screamed, I even remember hitting Paris when I was a Super Saiya-jin. She had a bruise and black eye for a week, but we never talked about it. I needed the drinks so much. I couldn't even think without it. I drank every time I was alone, I hid the liquor my clothes drawers, my closet, everywhere I could get away with hiding it. I would leave the house, then run back in and get a drink before I could go out again. I spent most of my time either drinking or suffering through the hangovers.

How did I manage to hide it from my family? I was always so careful to cover up my drinking. I blasted the empty bottles, and bought my liquor from a special dealer, one who wasn't afraid of my mother. I wish that they had seen my drinking problem. Then maybe it wouldn't have happened. Do you want to know what happened? I remember it so clearly now, I remember it every time I close my eyes. I was just starting one of my many hangovers. The alcohol was wearing off, and my bad temper was shining through. Trunks and his family were off somewhere, I can't really remember - maybe on vacation. My parents were out to dinner, at one of the few restaurants that would let a Son through the door. My brother and his family were out somewhere, and I had the house to myself. I spent most of the time in front of the toilet, my head resting against the lid as the blood pounded behind my ears. I needed a drink pretty bad right then. I had a half-empty bottle of vodka tucked behind the loose boards in the medicine cabinet, so I remember a long drink. I started having migraines when I first started drinking heavily, and I had one then. I washed the aspirin down with that bottle of vodka. I spent the rest of the night retching and passing out while my body tried to rid itself of the poisons I had just consumed.

Paris called sometime around two in the morning, my parents had yet to return, and I remember the ringing cell phone was like a jackhammer in my head. Gohan had returned sometime while I was unconscious, but the light in his room hadn't stayed on very long, and he was asleep by the time she called. I didn't really want to leave. I would have rather stayed and watched a movie or caught up on my sleep. I shouldn't have went. Still, I went out to meet her anyway. It was really cold then. Maybe a -15 degrees. I'm not quite sure, but it was snowing heavily. I took the car and headed to Satan City. Oh, how I wish I had just stayed at home. If I had just stayed at home, then none of this would have happened. I was supposed to pick up Paris, then go club hopping for the rest of the night, and hopefully be home before my parents were. Things never work out the way you want them to, do they?

We spent hours getting drunk and partying. That's the way it always was with us. We go out, get drunk, go home, and try to sleep off the aftershocks. Things didn't turn out like that, though. I was so tired when we left that last club. I hadn't had sleep in almost two days, and the alcohol only made it worse. I remember fumbling for the keys as Paris sat slumped over in the passenger's seat, her mouth turned up in an intoxicated grin. She looked so peaceful then, so happy. That was the last time I saw her as "happy". I never see her smile anymore. She can't.

I don't remember where the other car came from. The road wasn't all that twisted. I remember so clearly the flash of lights from the turning car. I remember taking so long to swerve away. I remember the screeching breaks, the car flipping and rolling after it struck the other car. I remember watching the blood trickle down Paris' temple as my world faded to black,. Perhaps if it hadn't been snowing, perhaps if I had been more awake, perhaps if I hadn't had that last drink ... I don't know. Maybe Paris knows, wherever she is. Maybe. I still think about her. Every night. It really doesn't matter now, thinking over won't help her. Nothing can help her.

When I woke up, my mother was standing over me, pressing a wet cloth to my head, trying to bring the fever down. They told me that the couple in the other car had been killed. They told me that Paris was in bad shape. She was in the ICU and was still unconscious. My back had been broken, a seemingly miraculous condition because my spinal cord had been unharmed. Paris wasn't so lucky. The car had collapsed and the roof had caved in on her head. Her neck had been damaged beyond repair and she would never walk again. After the wreck, all four of us had lain there in the snow for hours. Paris and I were unconscious, but we don't know how long the driver of the other car had lived. Both of the others had been pronounced dead on arrival. I don't know how long we were out there, lying in the snow, slowly freezing to death. We must have been out there until some unlucky driver came through and called for an ambulance. It was long enough for me to get a mild case of pneumonia. I had a fever for a few days, and Paris never woke up. My family sent me to rehabilitation.

It was hell without my whiskey, but after seeing what I did to Paris, to her family, I was determined to get through it. I went to the couple's funerals before I went to rehab. Watching what their families went through, it gave me the rude awakening I needed so desperately. Rehab took so long. I thought that I could call my family anytime I wanted to, but detoxification eliminated that possibility. When I could call people again, Trunks told me that Paris had given up her will to live. I wasn't allowed to attend her funeral. That was probably for the best, although I wanted to speak to her friends and family, to tell them how sorry I was that I couldn't stop drinking, that I couldn't stop her from drinking. It wouldn't have helped any, it wouldn't have brought Paris back. I wrote a letter that was supposed to be given to her family, but I never mailed it. They needed time to heal anyway.

After rehab, nothing was the same. Everyone treated me differently. My parents had went through the house and destroyed all of the alcohol. They missed a few of the more cleverly concealed bottles, but I busted them open when I got back. I visited Paris' tombstone almost every day, bringing flowers and reading her poetry. It sounds stupid, but it helped me heal. I still haven't finished healing my destroyed life. I did better in school after rehab. I studied more and brought my grades up. I still can't drive. My license was suspended, and I'm glad. I don't want to drive. I served three years in prison for vehicular manslaughter and driving while intoxicated. I deserved it. Somehow, I never thought of prison as a place where I would be. After my sentence was over, I got a job at Capsule Corp. I doubt I could have gotten one somewhere else. I'm a felon now. That charge will follow me wherever I go. It's destroyed my life, at least some parts of it. 

It's been exactly four years since the accident - since the last time I touched a drop of alcohol. I still work at Capsule Corp, and it helps me rebuild my life. I go to local schools and try to warn other's about my mistakes. It took only a second for me to pick up that first drink, and less than that for my life to change forever. I'm still trying to rebuild, but it takes so long to deal with the effects of what I did. I destroyed so many lives; Paris, the man and woman in the other car, my own, as well as their friends and families' lives. That one decision to get behind the wheel has had countless repercussions. I finally found the courage last summer to go see the family of the couple in the other car. They were angry when they first saw me, but that anger was more from grief than hate.

After I saw them, I went to Paris' grave and left four roses, like I always do every summer. It's been 1460 days since I've had a drink. I would give anything to go back and stop myself from every touching that first beer, but there's nothing I can do. I just wake up everyday, and try to find a way to deal with life. I just hope someone can learn from my mistakes, then they wouldn't have to find a way to deal.

* * *

Thankfully, I haven't had to deal with anything like this affecting my life. My sympathy goes out to those who have. I hope you enjoyed reading this, and that it wasn't too sad. 

Writing helps me deal with grief, and I wrote this after one of my relatives passed on. So if this seems too angst-like, then it's probably because the service was held on the day I wrote this. 

I don't have a beta reader, so I know there were some grammar errors and/or typos.


End file.
